The Warmth I Keep for No One, and For Everyone

The city outside my window has gone dark again, the streetlights blurring into soft halos through the glass. I pulled up my sweater only to let the cool air find me, then lowered it to hold myself a little closer. There is no one waiting at my door tonight, and for once I do not mind it.
I used to believe love was something you chased across platforms and late messages, a fire that had to be stoked every hour. Now I sit on this worn sofa, lace against skin like a quiet confession, and let it be what it is: a cup of tea cooling slowly in my hands. If he comes back tomorrow, the warmth will still be here. If he does not, the warmth was never his to take anyway.
I breathe out. The night breathes with me. Nothing needs to be fixed, nothing needs to be earned. I am simply sitting in the soft center of my own life, and that, I have finally learned, is enough.

Editor: The Tea Room